La Vie Strasbourgeoise: Adventures in Alsace

Saturday, 16 March 2019

10 months’ since my last
visit to London, it’s not just long overdue. It’s become a necessity for my
morale and general equilibrium. The main thing that’s been stopping me is my
irregular accommodation situation back in the UK.I
last stayed with a friend who gave me a warm welcome, although the environment
was chaotic.Mum is of course pleased to
host her baby but doesn’t currently have the space.

A few months prior, I thus contact my old landlady to check
if she has any spare rooms. Indeed she does, for a steal, the floor above where
I used to rent.

The journey to and from London is mercifully drama-free. No
missed connections. The only mild gripe is a fellow passenger who appears to
have verbal diarrhoea, intent on punctuating any silence with a running
commentary in a transatlantic whine to his significant other.

On arriving, there’s a bit of a hitch.Despite having sent her a reminder the week
before, my former landlady has an evening class and forgets. She lives all the
way in Kingston. I’m standing outside my old flat in the rain, the no doubt Climate Change-induced premature summer having inconveniently
vanished when I touch down.After
several unsuccessful attempts to phone her, she finally answers. Profusely
apologetic, she sends her husband down with the key. It’s at least an hour’s
drive. To kill the time, I bring forward a planned surprise visit to my aunt
and cousin who live in the neighbourhood.

I am only in town for what is effectively a long
weekend.I squeeze as many visits into
as many available windows. Meeting up with friends across the City,
we discuss amongst others, the male: female ratio and gender politics in the
church context, debate evolutionary biology vs. social constructionist theories,
Brexit (inevitably), ponder the latest R. Kelly scandal
and the impact of the controversial new MJ doc, my plans for the mid-long term
but surprisingly little about my current life in Strasbourg. Considering.Maybe that’s for the best.I’m in London for a change of scene after
all.

I’m under no illusions of having strong nostalgia for the
city itself.Cramped into the tiny, dusty
room which is my temporary residence, keeping my use of the poorly-maintained
communal areas to a minimum, I’m reminded why. The money-bleeding transport
system is another rude refresher. I
also reflect on the increasing aptness of the (admittedly quite pretentious) Citoyenne
Mondialedescriptor that I have facetiously adopted on occasion.Geographically, I don’t
know where I belong. Everywhere and nowhere.

By contrast, my visit to my home church is a
soul-enriching and centring highlight of the trip.I’m always nervous about these guerilla cameos when I shouldn’t be.The outcome is usually reassuring. I meet new babies, some of whom I don’t know
where their parents found the time to conceive and give birth within the period I’ve been away. After church I head to a local
Wetherspoons with a couple of good mates, including fellow aspiring writer, Pete and mutual
friend Amelia. She’s a captive audience to our latest creative efforts.

The following morning, I head to my old employers, The
Medical School. I pass by the Chaplaincy for a well-needed refresher meditation
session as well as a catch-up with the good Reverend. En route, I stop by the security lodge of my old office
building.I run into some of the old
gang; two of the ‘dream team’.It’s more
of an anticlimactic visit than I expect. I don’t receive the superstar welcome
that my vanity anticipated. In spite of giving some advance notice, my timing still isn’t the best. The fellows are cordial but distracted. During my visit Josh learns from his wife of the
death of one of his idols; Keith
Flint from The Prodigy.

Josh is dazed.

He’ll have to go up on
the wall of death, suggests a colleague, matter-of-fact. This is in
reference to a makeshift homage of photos to celebrities that have passed,
mostly-but not all-during this decade. Flint will take his place alongside
Tupac and Big Pun as one of Josh’s lost heroes.

The rest of the day is more auspicious.I spend a therapeutic afternoon with a church auntie, mutually comforting each other over the distressing
experience of the old 'ministry' where we met.

That evening, I pass by mum’s one last time before I fly out
the following afternoon.She effuses enthusiasm about my visits. She treats me to favourite foods and
all sorts of creature comforts to take back to Strasbourg, as well as graciously
giving my twists a much-needed tidy up.Mum approaches my hair like a sculptor does their raw materials. She’s
always seeing some new angle to adjust.

Back at work later that week, I hit the ground running. There
are several big meetings to prepare for in March and April. Sophie’s just back
from maternity leave and a new project is about to be launched in another part
of the former Eastern Bloc. Lucia, one of my several managers, seems to be in
relatively good spirits.Despite
protests to the contrary, she appears well-rested after a recent trip to the UK
which she says went very well. Alas, as I suspect, this ceasefire doesn't last very long. That's for a different blog post, maybe.

By the end of that week I am exhausted. I harness enough
energy to make it to my choir’s long but productive AGM.The
following day, it is late afternoon drinks with Gael in a new restaurant he’s
come across; the waggishly-named Chez
Mon-Ex (Round my ex’s). Original indeed and not, as I first thought, a veiled reference to Gael's unresolved relationship issues.

Sunday, 24 February 2019

My treacherous laptop is back in the shop. Just
over two years old and brand new on purchase, it’s given me nothing but grief
since the time it was delivered. Thankfully, I’ve found a reputable-looking PC repair at
the Rivetoile shopping centre. The downside is that a diagnostic takes anything
from 1-2 weeks.It’s not the first time I’ve had to make do without any entertainment at home thanks to
Asus’ dodgy manufacturing.I haven’t yet
invested in a TV and I’m still debating whether it’s worth
the additional expense.

I choose not to use smart technology, thus I’m out of the
loop save for the four days out of the week I’m in the office. I hear about the
postponement of the Nigerian elections as well as the shenanigans of ex-Labour Party saboteurs
across the Channel, a day after the news breaks. Over the weekend I fear private
email accounts overflowing with unopened messages. In fact, to my relief, it’s
not that bad.

To keep myself distracted I catch up on my backlog of
podcasts from the likes of Novara Media, The Sacred Podcast,
On Being and NEF.It’s a good time too to do some additional
reading that I don’t always get round to during the day. I rediscover the
singular interpretive talents of underrated Jazz vocalist, Anita O’Day. A jazz
singer’s jazz singer, if ever there were one.

A weekend without Skype and Netflix gives me a Sunday
afternoon free to attend a language exchange meet-up that I don’t usually
frequent.I’ve enjoyed myself a good
deal at these events of late (the positive affirmation I receive regarding my
language efforts doesn’t hurt, I must admit).

I’ve met a number of stimulating interlocutors. There’s
Noelle whose birthday happens to be between Christmas and New Year but who was
in fact named after a nun of whom her mother was fond. A Strasbourg native, we
nonetheless have a few things in common. We’re the same age. She spent
significant periods living and working in different parts of the UK. Although from the region, she can understand my trepidation regarding some aspects of life in
Alsace. We both bemoan the unsolicited advice from those who believe they have
the right to comment on the life choices of a 30-something single woman.
There’s also the confusingly Anglophone-monikered Jim; an affable French
polyglot who has picked up a number of Slavic languages as well as Italian on
his travels. Good-natured Roisin wears away my initial guardedness with her unflappable geniality.She’s on an intense
linguistic sojourn in France, having always wanted to learn the language.Currently based in Helsinki, and a former
resident of Zurich, she’s also a fluent Finnish, German and Portuguese speaker ( courtesy of a month's intense study in Lisbon).

Finnish? That’s
impressive. One of the most difficult European languages, they say. Everything else must be a breeze.

Not according to Roisin. She still finds French a
challenge.It’s reassuring somewhat to
learn that even seasoned multi-linguists struggle with La Langue de Moliere.
I’m in good company.

Earlier that weekend I re-join the inter-denominational
group in Strasbourg that reaches out to sexually-exploited women.It’s been a while. The timetable of the
outings has been more sporadic recently and there’s often a clash with my choir
schedule. Being a new member, I’m not keen on missing too many rehearsals.
However, neither do I want to abandon a ministry close to my heart. Skipping
one practice a month wouldn’t hurt.

(courtesy of Crossroads Bible Church)

We gather at what I am to find out is a thriving house church, with people
of all ages and backgrounds; both genders equally represented. It feels like living in the Book of Acts. I meet middle-aged new convert Billy (another
Francophone whose parents confusingly bequeathed him with an Anglophone nickname). I also rub shoulders with a couple of Austrian missionaries whom the church are hosting over the
weekend. Initially feeling awkward, wondering if my struggle to make small talk
in French will get in the way, I’m soon caught up in the invigorating energy of
it all.I recognise a few faces from church. We're soon joined by the group leaders, Sabrina, Dieudonné and Luc. I help translate for congenial Austrian
missionary, Karin.Despite herself being
a multi-linguist (including Turkish, which she learned growing up in Ankara),
she does not have French in her linguistic repertoire.

It's a sizeable group. Over 20 of us in total. After a moment of prayer and praise, we split into smaller groups of twos and threes depending on our area of
interests. Whilst some like Karin and I will be focused on the
sexually-exploited, others reach out to those sleeping rough or, like Dieudonné, share the Good News with groups of young revellers. Contrary to expectation there are many millennials/Xennials
and Gen-Z’s doing a lot of soul-searching, according to Dieudonné. This younger
generation respond with more enthusiasm to the big metaphysical questions than the
one before.

I team up with Karin and founding member
of the initiative, Luc. We always aim to have one male per group, bearing in mind the target group’s clientele.

It's the day after Valentine's. Alongside the usual hot drinks, Luc
has brought along some roses for the women. He gamely speaks in English for Karin’s benefit. Eager and full of compassion, I
try to gently disabuse her of certain preconceptions regarding the women
without dampening her spirit. As we approach a couple of the girls, a car
approaches and discussion ensues.

Wow, this is heavy stuff.
Karin observes.

Yet her presence that evening is auspicious. We come across
several women, even the more withdrawn amongst them willingly accepting our offer
of warm drinks and conversation. (We're fast running out of hot water but, by the grace of God, there's just enough to go round.)
A number of the girls also welcome our prayers. When
asked if she has any requests, young Diana only speaks her family's needs back in Albania. Life is tough, she explains. Luc asks if they know
what she’s doing in France.

Yes.

We exchange kisses with the bright and assertive Laura.
She switches with ease between French and fluid German with Karin; just two of
the several languages she speaks.

There are quite a few women with whom I’m yet to become
acquainted. Collette is one such.

Collette. That’s very
French.

That’s because I am.

I’m not used to meeting nationals who work the street. I compliment
her mesmerising eyes, which bear the Maghreb traits of her mother’s Moroccan heritage.They moisten whilst we pray for her and her
two year-old daughter.Collette dreams of
one day becoming a seamstress; or any in-road into fashion retail.

Round midnight, the various groups reassemble for an
encouraging debrief. Billy’s gang were so warmly received by a group of rough-sleepers,
that they used their meagre funds to buy a bouquet of roses to express their
gratitude. Billy gives one flower to each of the women. I’m usually bah-humbug about Valentine's, with all its
build-up, caricatures of romance and cynical commercialism. In these circumstances however, I am only
too pleased to accept Billy's floral offering. A pink rose takes pride of place on my dining table.

Wednesday, 13 February 2019

Between Brexit May-hem and The Organisation’s financial
problems, I have the impression that those of us with Brit connection are being pressed on all sides. Honorary
Londoner, Claudia tells me the atmosphere during recent trips to Blighty has
been demoralising to say the least. Everything is in suspended animation.
Brexit and all its uncertainty only aggravate existing socio-economic problems.
She’s seriously considering moving back to Sicily.My Labour International branch have heated
discussions about strategy and possible outcomes via video conference or email.
British colleagues and acquaintances with the opportunity of acquiring another
nationality are doing so sharp-ish.

The putative effects of a hard or No Deal-Brexit are indirectly being
felt in The Organisation. Not that they don’t already have their own
difficulties.With two major donors
pulling out, the belt is going to be tightened. It looks as if the
last-in-first-out policy will be applied, signifying the potential loss of hundreds of
jobs.

I attend my first Union meeting since I (belatedly to my
shame) joined a TU. I’ve been invited by a former French classmate.The speaker has one of the best French
accents I’ve heard on an Anglophone. She switches effortlessly between the two,
giving us the latest feedback from the higher echelons on how to navigate the
crisis. Not surprisingly, there’s much opaque management-speak on their end. Over free grub we
discuss possible future action including a demo. Colleagues speak of eye-watering
financial waste within the organisation; the cumulative effect of which would be the
equivalent at least of several salaries. I can’t say I’ve witnessed anything so
profligate yet in my own department, I’ve observed where sacrifices could
comfortably be made.Boss Man for instance, gives me a
rollicking –more than once-for reserving a seat in a second class train
carriage for a mission to Zurich. He waxes indignant over the need for leg room
(diminutive man that he is), noisy children and wishing to work in transit.
Always having travelled by second class on principle, I can attest it’s
perfectly possible to be productive without the need for total silence and
capacious surroundings. Hmm. Here am I thinking that I was saving The
Organisation money. I’m learning that it doesn’t always pay round these parts
to show initiative.

Lucia, one of his deputies, is proving to
be a challenge with her disjointed instructions, gauche manner and underestimation
of my abilities. She isn’t vindictive. I can tell when she’s making a special
effort to be friendly. She just isn’t the most socially adept of managers. I’ve
noticed on both sides of the Channel that such skills aren’t valued nearly
enough when considering candidates for promotion.

Lucia’s management style and I aren’t gelling. It’s having a
counter-productive effect and I find myself making silly errors more often
than usual. I attempt to own up to my mistakes whilst being diplomatically forthright about my reservations. There's a limit to how much this can be done. She’s
also responsible for my appraisals. It’s stressing me out. As a coping mechanism, I
try to reframe the situation as yet another opportunity to adapt to different ways
of working and show patience and compassion towards Lucia.

All this anxiety exacerbates my already grim outlook
on Strasbourg. I feel the absence of the moral support of family and close
friends. On that note, one or two of my friendships back home are in a state of
flux. My stubborn Love Jones for my former heartache wants to make a
resurgence. The slowness of my linguistic progress brings me low more than most
things. Trying times.

Never say die. I persist. I’m doing my best to simplify my life and, where I can,
eliminate unnecessary aggro. I’ve discovered some helpfulFrenchgrammar
channels on YouTube. I decide to re-enrol on a different advanced French class
at work, having already had my fill of the tutor's dismissiveness, passive-aggression, mordant
humour and the suspect political views of one of my classmates. I miss my old class.

I know I’ve
made a good decision when, having used a refined French idiom, the tutor Léa condescendingly
declares before my fellow students that I must have looked it up in a
dictionary.

As ever, keeping active is a good remedy for navel-gazing. Choir
rehearsals are slowly returning to life as more members get back into the
swing. I’m invited by erstwhile contralto, Yvette to watch her perform with her reggae band; a swan song of
sorts before she relocates to Brittany in March. We’ve met up a couple of times since
she announced she was leaving.A few
weeks earlier I have an unexpected melt-down over my linguistic frustration when we meet up at a bar in
Krutenau. Yvette is most sympathetic, recounting her own experience of moving
overseas (albeit, much further afield in Mali). Tears dried, the conversation
turns to the global political situation, her lovely singing voice and great
musical taste.

For the reggae gig, I take my little church sister Stacee
along. It’s a school night and the band is last on the bill. Alas, I can’t stay
for the show but it’s a good opportunity to bid Yvette farewell before she
moves on.

A couple of days before the gig, I attend a matinee of
THRO Theatre Company’s long-awaited Lewis Carroll/Brexit-related musical
parody.The show is a hit; sold out
performances almost every night of its brief run.It’s as topical as satires come, casting a
scathing eye at the whole post-referendum debacle.The show has evolved quite a bit since I sat
in on the first reading. There’s still a cast of thousands. You can tell the
experienced from the ingénues and the kids’ performances are more wooden than
anticipated. Boris Johnson, Jacob Rees-Mogg, Nigel Farage and David Cameron are
given too easy a ride.Nevertheless it’s
still a pretty sophisticated affair, poking fun at Britain’s lost
empire-complex and the illegitimate offspring of national identity; racism and
xenophobia.As is often the case, the bit-part
actors steal the show once again (Doris Schaal's Cheshire Cat, Mihail Stojanoski's myriad roles, Paula Hinchy's Cook...). Stanislavski was right.

Wednesday, 23 January 2019

On the way into work the other day, I overhear a discussion between otherwise unknown colleagues.

‘How are you settling in to life here?’ asks one
interlocutor.

‘Actually, I don’t find it very friendly’ is the reply.

Instinctively, I chime in

Me neither

Later that morning, I have a similar conversation with new
colleague Predrag, fresh from Croatia. He’s soon to be joined by his wife and
small children. We swap pleasantries and notes about finding
accommodation.He then asks my thoughts
on the city. I try to be diplomatic.

Well my experience
moving here on my own would be different from yours…

Not missing a trick, Predrag sees through my evasion. He tells me his single Bosnian friends have found Strasbourg rather alienating too.

It’s great if you have
a family but…

…As his friends put it, it’s a City with a village
mentality.

When I share this conversation with sis and a friend, independently of each other they reply:

Strasbourg doesn't sound very appealing, or...if it weren't for your interest in the language, I'd wonder why you're still there.

A part of me feels it's unfair to give the town a bad image. It is so easy on the eye. It's just compared to a city like London where, for all its faults it is open, diverse and any and everyone can potentially find their own 'tribe', Strasbourg by contrast closes in on itself.

Speaking to Predrag about his friends' experience, it feels good to be
understood. It’s not all in my head then, which has been a gloomy place of late. I’m also
missing the regularity of choir practice after a sporadic start to the year on
that front.

I'm doing what I can to resist the grim thoughts. The devil makes work for idle hands and minds. Thus, I’m in
default busybody mode.

My melancholy seems to be a good creative fuel. A friend in
the UK and I are keeping each other accountable regarding our fiction exploits.
We both agree that when inspiration flows it’s truly a spiritual experience. I
believe I feel closest to God in those moments.

I’ve also volunteered to take on more tasks at work whilst a colleague is on extended sick leave. It’s
certainly more hectic, and there are some teething problems adjusting to working
with different budgets and management styles. At least the job feels more
rewarding.

One afternoon in early January, the strains of fluid piano
playing float down the corridors of Le Chateau whilst I’m on my lunch break.
My curiosity leads me to two colleagues having an impromptu sing-along to Billy
Joel’s She's Always a Woman. Of
course I join in, mangled lyrics and all.One should never pass
up such serendipitous artistic opportunities. It’s as if for an instant, I've woken
up in a musical.Thanks to this
happenstance I discover that a colleague at THRO regularly organises open mic
nights. A suivre...

That weekend, I attend a short story workshop with
po-faced American author, playwright, musician and artist Mark Safranco. A talking shop, more like, since we don’t
get any writing done. Polymath Safranco is ironically
averse to workshops, preferring a Q&A format. An audience with....if you will. It’s a useful session nonetheless. There's much to be gleaned as
he discusses his journey and writing methodology. He graciously answers questions with
a broad East Coast inflection over a two-hour period. Although we don’t do any
writing exercises, I still leave with a short story idea.

That evening I meet up with Gael, a mutual acquaintance of
the Afropean
team.Having reached out to me over the
Christmas break, we’ve agreed to meet up in the New Year. No romantic intentions; strictly platonic.

He has travelled all over Africa and Europe, thanks to his job as a chemical engineer.
Add to this his Senegalese, Lebanese and French heritage, not surprisingly he's also multilingual. Gael is not a pedant like me, who wants to be a scholar in every
language. He’s happy to make himself understood for functional purposes. His
experience of learning Portuguese for example, was a baptism by fire whilst working in Mozambique.

Gael and I spend an agreeable evening speaking about everything under the sun including a lively
discussion about the Christian faith vs. indigenous practices; not too
dissimilar to that I had at the Afropean
symposium with one of his idols Tété-Michel Kpomassie.

Gael also has a passion for music and hospitality. He’s
returned to his old stomping ground, Strasbourg to open up a bar that reflects
the Afropean ethos.He proceeds to
qualify what that means. He extols the virtues of his European girlfriend who
has a passion for Congolese culture and politics. He believes she’s more
qualified to be called Afropean than those Francophone Africans born in France
with little active connection to their culture. I agree culture trumps
ethnicity. Someone of mixed-heritage like Gael, who was born and raised on
African soil before moving to France, is culturally more connected to the
Motherland than yours truly although I am ethnically ‘thoroughbred’. Still, I don’t
think his girlfriend his automatically a candidate for the Afropean label. I am
also frank about my distaste for what I call Kim-Kardashian syndrome; black
men who want a ‘black-white’ woman instead of the real thing. I explain to Gael
that although I don’t have any truck with the cultural appropriation argument,
(there’s no such thing as single ‘black’ culture or identity for one) I do take
issue with the apparent self-centredness of many black men. It's as if the struggle concerns them alone.

They seem to ignore/be
oblivious/indifferent to the plight of women of African descent. Neither are
they self-aware of how much they have bought into the narrative of disregarding us
whilst venerating Caucasian women.One can’t ignore the fetishisation either of the stereotypical African
buck which has nothing to do with valuing culture.

I have female European friends who genuinely
take interest in various African/Caribbean cultures and are married to men from
that background. I too have eclectic taste in men. But let’s not pretend it’s a
level playing field for women of all backgrounds. From a global socio-economic
and media perspective, women of African descent are often at the back of the
queue.

Gael and I discuss the desire of many immigrants to assimilate, in a country that insists you’re French before (or instead of) anything
else. We speak about colourism. I remark that some of those of lighter hue aren't as sensitive to the issue as they should be. I tell him about the documentaryDark Girls and mention the case of former Brazilian
carnival queen Nayara Justino, stripped of her title
for being considered ‘too’ dark-skinned. We both acknowledge the reality that most high-profile brown
women are light-skinned and/or mixed race. Gael nods sympathetically and makes
all the right noises. Yet there seems to me a cognitive dissonance in regards
to his reaction and whom he’s dating. It’s too familiar a story. I wonder if he has, or would ever, date a woman with a similar background to his Senagalese mother, for example. I mean to ask but somehow don't get round to it.

It’s not to
say every brown man that dates someone from a different background is a
sell-out. I just don’t think they’re honest enough about how much of the
European ideal (both aesthetically and economically) they’ve imbibed.

At the end of the evening, despite an otherwise pleasant exchange, I can't shake the vague sense of disillusion.